


Quietus

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and how they fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quietus

"To spare me. Spare  _me_." He is so angry now, shaking with it inside, coming apart, and she refuses to meet his eyes, to look at him, and he grasps her arm in a hard hand because what does it matter now if someone sees them? What does any of it matter now?

"You kept this from me, you lied, to spare  _me_." Carson is choking on the words, spitting them at her, and she is fixedly refusing to tilt her head back, to let him see her face, and he grabs it roughly, clenches her jaw between painful fingers, forces her head back so she can't escape, can't hide.

"How long now? Can you be honest about that much with me?"

Her voice is quiet, ashamed, and he feels terrible now, like a brute; this isn't about him but he's making her bear the brunt of his pain anyway because hasn't she always? Hasn't she always let it roll off of her back when he gets angry, when he shouts? There's nothing new about any of this.

Just her dying, that's all.

"A month or two. If we're generous."

His chest hitches hard and he swallows back a sob. A month or two. If they're generous. A month or two to put everything to right, to fix all the bungled attempts, to say all the unsaid words, to touch her and love her and hold her. To tell her that she has been his reason for everything since the day he met her. That he dreams of her all the time, both silly, fluffy daydreams and hot, erotic night dreams.

"Right, then. A month or two."

Time passes.

There is no medicine, no miracle cure for her. She quietly turns into a thin little ghost wracked with pain.

Some days are better; her cheeks pink and her smile ready when he comes to her with her breakfast, with the book they are working on. She jokes about her illness and he forces a mirthless laugh as he silently falls apart.

He has turned over most of his duties to Thomas, is glad now that she insisted he take on an under-butler. Wonders bitterly if she had thought ahead, if she had known he'd have another job waiting for him very soon. That his time would be spent elsewhere. Carson is tired, sleeps three or four hours a night and then his sleep is broken, tortured with tears that he can't shed during the day. Tears that he wouldn't even know of if he didn't wake every morning with the tracks drying on his face.

Some days are worse; she sleeps fitfully, wakes almost screaming with the pain in her bones, her back. Shoves the blankets off of her because the weight of them is agony bearing down on her frail frame. He uncaps the always-ready syringe, soothes her with a stupid little song, with a soft hand massaging her waist as he jabs the needle into her hip, gives her the measured dose of morphine. Rubs the site with a hard thumb to speed along the subcutaneous delivery of the blessed pain relief. He swallows his horror, his helplessness, as he lays her back down, covers her. Wipes the sweat and the tears from her face with his hands, with a cool cloth. Sits beside her on the bed until she sleeps again. Sometimes he lays with her, holds her against him because the medication doesn't work, doesn't stop the pain, and some ridiculous part of him thinks that if he holds her close enough the pain will bleed out of her and into him and that would be just fine, just grand, he would love that. Would welcome it with open arms.

Time passes.

She fades, and fades, and she smiles less, cries more often. Speaks sometimes in a dream haze brought on by the morphine, talks about her girlhood in Argyll. She mistakes him sometimes for her father, asks him to take her swimming in the loch. Tells him that her chores are done, that she's gathered the eggs and fed the chickens and pegged out the wash, and  _now_  can they go? _Now_  can they? During those delirious moments he doesn't argue, doesn't try to correct her, because what does it matter? He just holds her hand in his own shaking one, strokes it gently, tells her that they will go swimming in the loch very soon, just as soon as she has her nap, just as soon as she sleeps a little so she'll be good and strong for a nice long outing.

The day comes when she can no longer eat, even if he feeds her. She can take a sip or two of water and her eyes are dimming, that last part of her that still contained life, the misty blue waters that sparkled or darkened depending on her mood. They are clouded over now with fog and she calls to him desperately, longingly, when he is out of her sight. He has taken to sleeping with her now, sleeping in his shirt and trousers with her held in the loose circle of his arms so that he will be near whenever she wakes. If he isn't, she becomes frightened. Cries. He talks to her now, talks and talks, about nothing, about everything. Talks about being on the stage — what does it matter now? what shame could be greater than this, what stupid shame could outweigh this horror of watching a strong woman waste to nothing while he lives on, strong and breathing and with a beating heart? — tells her funny stories about drunken singers forgetting their lines and clumsy dancers missing their steps. Tells her racy, erotic stories of prostitutes that fall in love with stable boys.

He kisses her once after one of those stories, kisses her dry, soft lips gently and she returns the kiss with what little strength she can before sighing, pressing her face to the curve of his neck.

Time passes. A terrible amount.

The day comes when she cannot pull out one more time, when she can't find her way out of the endless labyrinth of pain that has her trapped inside and he has prayed, he has prayed and prayed and he doesn't really think he believes in God anymore because this wouldn't be so if God was there, if God could hear him. God is not going to release her from this.

He pulls the blinds, locks the door. Lights a single lamp and he sits next to her, holds her hand in his, cups her cheek with the other. She is fading in and out of the pain and she knows him when she fades in, though she's not sure of where they are, of when they are.

She fades in.

"Mr. Carson — it's so bad, it's — is it time for my shot yet?"

He smiles. Strokes the delicate skin below her eye, the smooth bridge of her nose, the soft lips.

"Everything's all right, my dear. Just a bit longer, just a minute while I get it."

She tries to smile, tries to find some ray of happiness for him.

"Mr. Carson, I think — well. You've been so good to me, to look after me like this, but what about your work?"

_Sod my fucking work._

"Everything is just fine. Thomas is taking care of everything. You were right, you know, he is a good under-butler. Gets on very nicely."

He frees his hands, prepares the morphine. Draws the clear liquid up into the syringe.

"I — Mr. Carson, may I speak freely?"

_You always did, my dearest. I never could but you always did._

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes."

Her cold fingers — thin and so fragile now — wrap around his wrist and stroke his pulse, his damnable throb of bloody life.

"You have always meant so much to me. I — well. Mr. Carson, I believe I have loved you for quite some time." The words trail off and she is fading out, falling back into the abyss of pain that awaits her.

His hand shakes, he almost snaps the needle as his eyes blur, but he continues on. Draws the morphine up, up, up.

"And you, Mrs. Hughes. I have loved you. I didn't deserve to, but I have loved you."

Carson takes her hand in his and turns it over gently. No painful stick into her curveless hip now, not this time. He taps his finger against her wrist, but it doesn't take much. The blue vein is there in stark relief already. He slides the needle in easily and she gives a little gasp.

"I have."

With a sure thumb, he depresses the plunger. Pushes steadily, watches the entire vial of morphine flowing into her body through her central venous system.

"I  _have_."

She dies without incident, without spasm or convulsion, after a few seconds of shallow, ragged breaths. She dies and he drops the syringe into the trash. Folds her little bird-like hand between his own and folds over, presses his mouth against her palm.

They find them there, hours later, when Anna comes to relieve him for the night.

Anna embraces him, pats him tenderly, and he endures it for a long minute before gently disengaging himself and leaving the room for the last time.

Time passes. Slowly.

He began fading the day she died, the day he killed her with all of the love a man could hold in his heart. Began fading into a silent marble thing that simply went about doing its work. No longer took his meals at the table, because there was no point without her sitting at his right hand. No longer drank wine, because what use was there when he'd pour only one glass?

He fades into stone. Children are growing up in the house, Sybil's daughter and Mary's son, and he pats them automatically when they run and throw little arms around his legs. Gives them a sweet, a sixpence. Feels nothing for them, really.

Carson visits her every week, every Sunday when he should be in church. He sits on the ground next to her little grave with its neat headstone and its always-present posy of flowers. He's glad for those posies, because he didn't want to do it himself. He didn't want to arrange flowers to bring to her dead body because it would be hypocritical, sickening. He had given her no flowers while she lived, he wouldn't take false comfort in bringing them now. But he's glad someone is.

One Sunday, just after he has left, someone else visits the grave with a pretty bouquet of violets, of peach tea roses. She kneels on the ground and works diligently, secures them into the vase. Wipes away the hot tears. Chokes back a little sob. The job done, Mary stands, brushes off the knees of her jodhpurs. She watches in the distance as the straight, wide figure in black walks slowly back to the drive, makes his way to the house. She came here every week, made sure there was always something pretty. Something that he might have given her. She does it because she lost him on the day he lost her and she grieves for him, for all of it.

God, how he had  _loved_  her.

_He had._


End file.
